


May the Fourth Be With You

by Lady_Saddlebred



Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me [45]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-21 17:35:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18707107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Saddlebred/pseuds/Lady_Saddlebred
Summary: 1999 TPM Anniversary





	May the Fourth Be With You

Title: May the Fourth Be With You

Author: Lady_Saddlebred (cdelapin@yahoo.com)

Archive: Yes, please

Category: Q/O, Alternate Reality

Rating: PG-13

Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me in School (archived)

 

DISCLAIMER: George Lucas owned everything, until he sold it to Disney. We own nothing, just playing in sandbox.

 

Special thanks to Katbear and Merry Amelie and Helen, mes betas par excellence! Any mistakes are mine.

 

Summary: “Party Like It’s 1999” TPM 20th Anniversary

 

Previous fics in series: all on AO3 website:  
Early Admission  
Lessons They Never Taught Me in School  
Lessons That Were Never on the Syllabus  
That Which Does Not Go to School  
Rainy Day Recess   
Of Popcorn and Pine Trees  
Fit to Print  
Daffodils  
Spring Cotillion  
Is That a Lightsaber I See Before Me?  
A Pen for Your Thoughts  
When I Was Your Age  
Partners  
Mum’s the Word  
Best Laid Plans  
An Apple for Teacher  
What’s for Supper?  
Pacifier  
Snow Angels  
One Man’s Junk  
May I Have This Dance?  
Four Green Fields  
Too Darned Hot  
Pomp and Circumstances  
Summertime Blues  
Blow the Man Down  
Post-Graduate Studies  
Crossing the Pond  
Moving On  
Picnic in the Park  
Family Matters  
Meeting of the Moms  
Ebony and Ivories  
A Less Than Perfect Storm  
Chicken Soup  
Measuring Up  
The Drinking Game  
Rainy Day Recess Revisited  
Step It Out  
Souls Mirrored  
The Pizza Fairy  
Trick or Treat  
Moonlight

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben could hardly contain his excitement. He was tempted to call Quinn at the lab, but his stubbornly Luddite partner still largely distrusted the shiny iPhone XS Max Ben had gotten him for his birthday, and probably wouldn’t answer a call or text unless it was an emergency. Assuming, of course, he hadn’t conveniently “forgotten” to bring it with him to work. It wouldn’t be the first time.

 

Besides, Quinn would be up to his eyeballs in final exam reviews, pre-graduation and other end-of-term departmental stuff. He’d come home exhausted every evening, falling asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. He didn’t need anything else on his plate. Had it only been a year since “Xandra-Gate”? Sometimes he still expected to see the raven-haired pain in his ass strolling around the campus in her Jimmy Choos. 

 

He pulled the envelope out of his laptop bag, still not quite believing it. Two all-inclusive passes to the Star Wars convention in Boston, in honor of the 20th anniversary of the release of Episode I: The Phantom Menace. The event had sold out the first day. When the local radio station had run an on-the-air contest he’d damned near wrecked the car, frantically dialing over and over. He’d been the 99th caller and had correctly answered a plethora of increasingly difficult TPM trivia questions. A courier had *hand-delivered* the award packet the same day. More than one of his co-workers had “generously” offered to take them off his hands. There’d even been a couple of interesting bribes. As if!

 

Now all he had to do was convince Quinn. 

 

The older man had been surprisingly amenable to the prequel trilogy marathon , even after he’d fallen and reinjured his bad knee at work that same morning. The poor guy had been on crutches and painkillers, tossed into a quite literally alien environment. Ben had solicitously dosed his soda with Oxycontin, not knowing Quinn had self-medicated with Irish whiskey before leaving the house. The combination of Oxy and Jamesons had been highly entertaining to everyone around them. Quinn had since acquired a basic working knowledge of Star Wars canon, but Ben knew it really wasn’t his cup of tea. He’d appreciated the gesture, all the same.

 

But even restricted to just Star Wars, this event was going to be a couple million times bigger than a mere movie trilogy marathon. He couldn’t imagine Quinn trying to weather a full-blown Comic-Con; it would be akin to crash-landing on another planet in nothing but your underwear. Then again, his Irish botanist had proven himself quite adaptable in weirder situations. 

 

And after all, it was only a weekend.

 

Of course, a couple of stiff drinks and his special hamburger stroganoff could go a long way toward greasing the skids…

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn opened the door to the garage and sniffed appreciatively. He knew that smell. His stomach growled in happy anticipation, even as his tired brain begged for a Jameson’s (or two or three) and a good night’s sleep. Mother of God, what a day… Retirement was looking better and better all the time. 

 

“Hey, babe,” Ben called, sticking his head out from the kitchen. “Perfect timing. Supper’ll be ready in about 20 minutes.”

 

“Grand,” Quinn answered, heading for the breakfront in the living room. To his surprise, the Waterford decanter and a glass were sitting on the pull-out shelf, waiting for him. He poured a couple of fingers’ worth and sipped. Stroganoff? Whiskey? Something was up…

 

Ben walked into the living room and leaned in for a kiss. “Rough day?” He was steered to his comfortably sprung easy chair. Bernini laid his head on his knee, and he reached down to scritch behind his ears. Definitely something to be said for not living alone…

 

“One more week of exams and the semester will be over but for graduation, thanks be to God.” Quinn sighed and took a healthy swallow of whiskey. “I’m gettin’ too old for this shite.” 

 

He felt the kiss to the top of his head even as strong young fingers kneaded and probed the bunched neck muscles. The involuntary purring rumble deep in his throat was rewarded with soft laughter and another kiss. 

 

“Hedonist,” Ben teased.

 

“Yer point?” Quinn murmured, feeling the troubles of the day beginning to melt away.

 

Ben patted his shoulder and moved toward the hall. “I’ll go put the pasta on. Want to eat in here? I can bring you a tray.”

 

“I think I can make it to the bar,” Quinn said wearily, not opening his eyes. “What’s the occasion?”

 

There was a pause, then Ben said casually, “No occasion. Just figured you’d been having a tough week and might enjoy a little pampering.” 

 

So typical of his young lover, who habitually went out of his way to make their home life as easy as possible. Quinn knew the lad still harbored misgivings over their (in his eyes) unequal status, much as Quinn had labored to dissuade him. Ben kept the brownstone immaculate (while carefully avoiding the sanctum of Quinn’s study), the cupboards, refrigerator and liquor cabinet stocked with Quinn’s favorites, and had even largely taken over the cooking. Amazing how quiet the house seemed when he wasn’t there. Strange that it had never bothered him before.

 

Finishing his drink, he struggled to his feet and moved down the hall to the kitchen. Ben had already set the bar with plates and flatware and large glasses of iced tea. Bernini followed and lay down to enjoy a rawhide treat. The food smelled grand, and the tea was steeped to perfection.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben waited until Quinn finished his second helping of the stroganoff. “Feeling better now that you’ve been fed and watered?”

 

Quinn nodded. “Much. Not sure what I did to deserve it, but it was altogether marvelous, love. Thank you.” 

 

“You’re welcome.” Ben reached for the empty plates and glasses and put them in the dishwasher. The remains of the stroganoff went into the refrigerator; it was even better reheated. “There’s gelato for dessert.”

 

Quinn patted his belly. “Full up, thanks. Maybe later.” He reached for a dishcloth and wiped down the countertops, then looked around to be sure everything was in order. “All done here?”

 

“Yep,” Ben replied, then slid past him and headed back toward the living room. Quinn and Bernini followed. Ben sat down at the piano and began to play. The tune was vaguely familiar…

 

“S’nice. What is it?” Quinn asked.

 

Ben didn’t look up. “Just a little John Williams.” 

 

John Williams? Now, how did he know that name? He glanced over at the sheet music. Of course. The theme from Star Wars. True, it was written for a full orchestra, but the simple piano melody wasn’t bad. “Sounds pretty good, even without the horns and crashing cymbals at the beginning,” Quinn joked. 

 

Ben finished the piece. “Glad you liked it.” He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a flyer. “Guess what’s coming to Boston?”

 

Quinn reached for his reading glasses. Saber-Con. What the bloody hell was a *Saber-Con*? He read it through, then glanced at Ben’s carefully neutral face. “I take it you want to go.” 

 

Ben shrugged. “Wouldn’t mind checking it out,” he said nonchalantly.

 

Quinn wasn’t fooled. Star Wars was Ben’s sangreal, his Holy Grail. “How much are the tickets?”

 

Ben shook his head. “Sold out the first day.” 

 

Odd that he didn’t sound exactly despondent. Quinn smelled a rat. “I take it you’ve already procured…” He let the question trail off.

 

Ben’s face split into a huge grin. “You might say that.” He reached behind the sheet music and pulled out an envelope bearing the logo of a local radio station and held it out. “Open it.”

 

Inside were two embossed tickets decorated with a pair of crossed lightsabers, along with several vouchers. The cover letter confirmed that Ben had won an all-expense-paid trip to the convention, including overnight accommodations and admission to meet-and-greets, movie screenings, seminars, etc. There was even a contest for best costumes. It sounded positively… terrifying. 

 

“Who’d you have to kill?” he asked half-seriously. 

 

“The station held a contest,” Ben said proudly, perching on the arm of the big leather chair. “I was the 99th caller, and I answered all the questions correctly and I *won*! Can you believe it? And this year’s the 20th anniversary of the release of ‘Episode I: The Phantom Menace’, remember? That’s the one with Qui-Gon Jinn and Anakin as a little kid, and the big pod race and Obi-Wan was Qui-Gon’s padawan learner…”

 

Quinn leaned back into the sanctuary of his leather chair and let the words flow over him, knowing better than to interrupt. Ben could go on for hours about anything related to Star Wars, needing only the occasional “Oh, really?” or “Good to know” from him. Not that he wasn’t impressed at his lad’s achievement – those call-in dodges could be brutal. 

 

“Of course, TPM wasn’t actually released until May nineteenth, but Saturday will be May the fourth and…

 

The world was starting to slide away. Details from the night of the movie marathon would always be a bit unfocused. But they had the entire set of movies now; he supposed he could get up to speed in time and finesse the rest. After all, his lad asked for so little-

 

“And the new Disney movies were filmed in Ireland, at Skellig Michael. We’ll have to go check it out the next time…

 

*That* registered, at least. Sceilig Mhichíl, or Skellig Michael as it was known outside of Ireland, was a small rocky island about eleven kilometres off the Irish coast in County Kerry. Desolate and uninhabited for over a century, apart from colonies of birds and grey seals, it had been designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1996. He’d done a couple of research trips over summer holidays while an undergrad at the Academy. Its larger twin, ironically named Sceilig Bheagi, or Little Skellig, was virtually inaccessible and closed to the public. 

 

“… and exams will be done by then. We can leave right after your last class Friday afternoon. Adele’s going to take care of Bernie, and…”

 

The general was clearly marshaling his forces. Well, Quinn thought, holding up both hands in surrender, At least this time I won’t be on crutches…

 

~*~*~*~

 

They checked into the hotel on Friday evening. Banners trumpeted the “Saber-Con” everywhere one looked. The concierge was decked out in the signature full-body armor of a stormtrooper, complete with headgear. Ben verified their passes and received a pair of VIP badges from the Jedi padawans working the registration table. He congratulated Quinn on correctly identifying several of the characters pictured, including the infamous Darth Vader. If the barely subdued frenzy revolving around them was any indication, it was going to be quite the weekend. 

 

Their spacious corner room on the 14th floor boasted a king-sized bed and a Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom. Most of the commotion down below was thankfully muffled. Quinn facetiously speculated whether the convention had booked the entire hotel for the weekend, or if there were other guests cowering in their rooms against the blitzkrieg. 

 

They had supper at a nearby restaurant and made an early night of it; Ben was eager to be downstairs as soon as the doors opened in the morning.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn felt the tension headache building at the base of his skull. This was a hundred, a *thousand* times worse than the movie marathon that had been his initiation into Star Wars. Events of that night would always remain something of a blur. Ben had meant well, slipping him a Mickey Finn for his reinjured bad knee, not knowing Quinn had taken a few fortifying shots of Jameson’s in lieu of prescription opiates. Lingering feelings of having acted a complete berk had played into his admittedly less-than-enthusiastic agreement to accompany Ben to this, what was it again? “Saber-Con”? 

 

What the bloody *HELL* had he let himself in for?

 

The hotel boasted over 15,000 square feet in dedicated meeting space, with state-of-the-art audio-visual technology throughout. Upon entering through the big double doors, they were assaulted by a cacophony of noise, flashing lights of all colors and an overall sense of barely controlled mayhem. Sporting a colorful Star Wars t-shirt, Ben was in his element, pointing out various attractions and eagerly taking pictures and videos on his cell phone. Quinn could barely hear him over the racket. He took a deep breath and resigned himself to the inevitable. 

 

“Hey, look! A photo booth! C’mon!” Ben grabbed Quinn’s hand and urged him forward, excited as any child at his first ceilidh. Quinn reluctantly allowed himself to be dragged along, consoling himself with the view of Ben’s comely ass wrapped in tight-fitting jeans ahead of him. Apparently, it wasn’t the least disconcerting to those around them to see two grown men strolling (or in this case, *hastening*) hand in hand. God knew, if they broke physical contact, he’d never find him again in the raging torrent of humanity.

 

And Jesus, Mary and Joseph, if he heard someone say “May the Force be with you” one more time, he was going to scream. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

“Ooh, now *that’s* what I call the perfect Jedi Knight,” purred the photographer from behind the camera. “Stern, stoic, all business. You could be the ‘poster boy’ for recruitment at the Temple on Coruscant!” 

 

Quinn raised an elegant eyebrow but held his tongue. Jedi Knight, indeed, he thought, tamping down his distaste as the assistant fussed with the long dark brown robe (*so* not his color) and adjusted the garish plastic “lightsaber” in his hand. It was damnably hot under all the lights, and the rough linen tunic and hooded woolen cape frankly itched. He didn’t even want to think about how many others had worn them before him. Eying the cold beer in Ben’s hand, he imagined it draining down his own parched throat. I’m only doin’ this for you, y’know, he thought sourly. 

 

Ben grinned and blew him a kiss, clearly picking up on the misanthropic sentiment. Then he glanced over at the computer screen attached to the camera and gave Quinn an enthusiastic two thumbs up, evidently pleased with what he saw. Quinn gritted his teeth and prayed for a swift end to his suffering. 

 

His lad was going to owe him big-time.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben was having the time of his life. Quinn followed him around the room, occasionally offering a comment or asking a question, but after an hour or two, his interest, real or feigned, was predictably wearing thin. They got some lunch and found a quiet corner in one of the outer hallways, and Ben halfheartedly asked if he’d like to leave. Quinn declined, of course, but Ben knew he was tempted. Against such a contingency, he’d researched several points of interest in the city more in line with his partner’s naturalistic tastes. Quinn visibly brightened at the prospect of being let out of the maelstrom, even for a little while. They agreed to meet back at their room in time to freshen up for dinner. Ben watched him stride toward the nearest exit, relief evident in every step. Nice ass…

 

Free now to indulge himself, he avidly trolled the various vendor booths. Quinn had “gifted” him with the entire third floor of the brownstone, and he envisioned a home office and workroom in a carefully constructed Star Wars theme. An end-of-year bonus from First Call had been salted away for just that purpose. That picture of Quinn as a Jedi Master would definitely take center stage. The resemblance to Liam Neeson’s Qui-Gon Jinn from TPM was uncanny. Even the photographer had commented on it, to Quinn’s barely concealed annoyance. In hindsight, Ben could admit it had been one of the first things that had attracted him to the Biology Department chairman.

 

Quinn would have enjoyed meeting Scottish-born actor Ray Parks, who had portrayed Darth Maul in TPM. The two Gaels probably would have bonded on the spot. Ben secured an autographed photo, then wandered through the meeting space, listening to heated debates on various Star Wars issues, including but not limited to the Disney “makeovers”, while tactfully declining to take sides. He’d learned a lot about diplomacy when they’d been in Northern Ireland — on some topics it was best to just smile and keep mum. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

The two men ate dinner in the hotel that night. Quinn’s face, neck and forearms were a bit sunburned from wandering the botanical gardens near the convention center. Ben spoke enthusiastically about the seminars and panel discussions he’d attended. As they lingered over dessert and tea, a group of pseudo-Jedi stopped by to invite them to a TPM after-party upstairs. Quinn politely declined, claiming a rendezvous with a former colleague he’d run into that afternoon. Ben let it pass. Being a supportive partner was one thing; a roomful of noisy Star Wars uber-fans hopped up on the day’s events (not to mention beer, alcohol and who knew what else) would be torture for the uninitiated. Given his druthers, Quinn would probably have preferred being thrown naked into a large patch of poison ivy.

~*~*~*~

There must have been 50 or more people crowded into the suite. The combined body heat made Ben thirsty, and he quickly polished off a large rum-and-Coke from the open bar. He’d had a couple of beers during the afternoon but hadn’t felt more than a pleasant buzz, which he put down to adrenaline over alcohol. After all, he’d had a big lunch and a protein-laced dinner. Quinn, of course, could throw back shot after shot and never turn a hair; not even a Wookiee could likely put him under the table. 

He told himself it was fine to have another drink: he wasn’t driving, and their room was just a few floors away on the elevator…

~*~*~*~

Quinn soaked in the Jacuzzi tub, applied aloe to his sunburn, then relaxed in bed with a glass of Jameson’s and a new book he’d picked up that afternoon. Let Ben enjoy himself with the rest of the madding crowd. Barring sirens and police in riot gear storming the hallways, he’d happily wait for him here, in relative peace and quiet. He knew he hadn’t fooled his lad with the spur-of-the-moment excuse of a nonexistent rendevous. At least he hadn’t been called out on it.

He glanced over at the color picture of himself in the Jedi Knight costume on the bureau and grimaced. The things one did for love…. 

~*~*~*~

Ben groped for the elevator button, willing the hallway to stop spinning. He’d only had a couple of rum-and-Cokes… Oh yeah, and that glass of “home brew” that had burned like kerosene down his throat…

The party had been nothing short of mass hysteria. When he’d mentioned that he and Quinn had been in Ireland the summer before, he was bombarded with questions. Clearly his priorities were all out of whack. Who cared about some old Giant’s Causeway, or the Titanic Museum in Belfast, or even all the history that was Dublin? Why hadn’t he gone to Skellig Michael, to stand where Luke Skywalker had rejoined the Force? It hadn’t even occurred to him at the time, but hell, it wasn’t as if he couldn’t go back, right?

The elevator doors opened, and he stumbled down the hall to their room, but couldn’t seem to get his key card to work. He knocked on the door, hoping Quinn hadn’t gone to bed. Unfortunately, it was the room on the *opposite* side of the hall. Thankfully, Quinn heard the commotion and came to his rescue, murmuring apologies to the voluptuous blonde in the shortie nightgown, who seemed unsure whether to call the police or invite them in. The fact that Quinn was in his paisley silk robe and barefooted probably didn’t help matters much.

“Have a good time?” Quinn asked, closing the door firmly behind them.

“Uh huh,” Ben mumbled, struggling to remove his clothing. His hair was rumpled, and his t-shirt sported a few unrecognizable stains. He was unsteady on his feet and frankly smelled like a brewery. 

Quinn followed him to the bathroom. “All right there, lad?” he asked softly. Then moved to catch the younger man before he tumbled backward into the Jacuzzi tub. 

Ben gave him a happy boozy smile. “May the fourth be with you…” he said dreamily, 

Quinn sighed and reached to turn on the water in the tub. “More like revenge of the fifth.”

~end~


End file.
